coffee crumbs 4

8/9/2019 Coffee Crumbs 4

1/25

Issue Four: The Conglomerate


2/25

Hello ello ello?

Oh hi!!! Its us, Dim Media!

After several months in hiatus, Coffee Crumbs is back, andthis time its personal. Our return issue is a special issue

and by special I mean it only has one story in it. There is

also a poem, but thats it. (Unless you count this page and

the credits, which I dont, and honestly why would you?)

If you are an avid Dim follower then you noticed we changed

fonts. Lucida Bright turned on us, so we switched to reliableAriel. You will find its readability makes up for its familiarity.

In other news we now have an Etsy Account and a residency

at Karnak Gallery. So please go out there and find us,

before we find you. (Creepy orchestra hit)

The most popular ways of finding us are listed below.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/DimMedia

http://storyofdim.com/

[email protected]

You have two weeks. After that were coming to your door,

and if that happens you better pray you have enough beer.

Oh thats not a problem? Alright, then its settled, well see

you later this week!

Respectfully yours,

Dim Media


3/25

Present Day: March 12, 2056

No Christmas this year. No Jolly Saint Nick, no Easter

Bunny and no Mickey Mouse either. The world has moved on.

Humanity, like a stiff abortion, is being nurtured in the armsof an evil empire. The Conglomerate Corporation spreads its

shroud of death across the globe. The flag of the steel C flails

in the wind.

Two-thirds of the worlds population have been lost.

The Conglomerate is an unstoppable force. A mechanical army

emerged. The months that followed were carnage or submis-

sion. No one could stop the wave of world destruction. Thearmy of dark robotic soldiers swept across the globe in a tidal

wave of thunder, murder, and marching feet. They stomped on

women, children, and the wounded without mercy. Fires burned,

buildings collapsed, cities filled with vanishing ghosts. The

slaughter of thousands coated the streets in a blanket of death.

For ten days, the skies grew black. The army moved westward.

On the eleventh day, gray clouds parted and the FreeAlliance stepped forth as the last hope for salvation. Upon the

front lines of the Middle East, and the Ancient Holy Lands, the

Alliance collided with the forces of the Conglomerates Army and

held them back.

They were ready and the war continues...


4/25

Written by Charles Denton

Illustrated by Blaine Garrett


5/25

Whats that noise? His weak hand raises to the windowsill.

I dont know.

Make it stop.

I cant.

Julian rolls across the stiff blood-stained mattress.Hard springs jut into his ribs. The pain registers. He is

regretfully, still alive. Finding the window, he pulls the white

Victorian sill closed and cuts off the clatter below. Paint

flakes away from the woodwork and falls over his head like

snowflakes. Julian brushes them off.

Gears turn outside, pounding and banging, ten floors below.

What are they doing down there? He sits up and rubs hisface. Its been going on since I got here.

I dont know. Probably building something to defeat the

resistance.

Julians lower spine aches and cracks as he twists.

This must have been a nice place to live. He looks around

the vacant apartment scratching the bristle of his chin. Its

been a few weeks since shaving and the hair has mossedover his face.

He pulls back the dark curtains and peers out the

window. Its still there, the lack of life and the black factory

boiling like a cancer. He winces. The loss of a beautiful

free land thrashed hate in his heart. He crawls out of bed.

A crimson pillow falls to the floor. Julians hairy feet touch

the carpet.

What a nice apartment.

You mean, it used to be.

Yeah, it used to be...

Probably was a cozy nook for a family. A family of three.

Yes, fit for three. Julian falls to his knees.


6/25

Painful memories flood his mind. His wifes pleas, his

daughters motionless body in the corner, the dark looming

soldier with red eyes, the screaming. The horror! It couldnt

be real, just a dream. All a dream, he will one day wake

from.A happy family. A happy family. Julians body convulses,

and he buries his face deep in the meaty flesh of his palms.

A fist jerks out, crashing into the plaster wall. Tiny cracks

form and dust falls. He yells and his elbow breaks through

the thin window pane. It shatters. Glass shards fall to the

floor.

Glass is a slow-moving liquid. On buildings of theearly 20th century, the panes are thicker at the bottom than

at the top. This is due to the effect of gravity over long

durations of time, moving transparent sand molecules like a

heavy frozen waterfall.

The slow moving medium shatters and a sharp edge

slashes through Julians elbow. The pain brings him back to

the present. The factory outside thrashing, gears squealing,the screaming floods the room. Julian sits sobbing, leaning

up against the wall.

Look what youve done.

Shut up. He grumbles.

Now youre bleeding. How is this a good thing?

Shut up I said.

I hope youre happy.

I am.

You have to forget about them. Forget about it all.

Julian rips a piece of cloth from the white bed sheet

and ties it around his arm. The knot turns red. He picks up

his assault rifle and looks through the scope at the factory.

Black cross-hairs move through the crowd of workers. He

could kill any one of them with a squeeze of the trigger. That

could make everything better.


7/25

Metal bangs against metal, echoing within the stone

walls of the factory. Gas valves hiss, steam lurches into the

air, dry gears grind and wear into each other. The noise

goes on forever. The factory never sleeps. It constantlybuilds, functioning, manufacturing, and pumping black

smoke into the darkening skies.

Soot and ash coat the workers. They have productive

duties. All of them, with neat silver helmets and the letter C

on the foreheads. The helmets remind Julian of something

common hed seen 21st century motorcyclists wear, with

black visor shields. Julian follows a man in his sights. Helooks young, mid-20s. Julians finger twitches at the trigger.

He wants to pull it. He wants to give the pain way. The gun

shakes in his grip and eventually lowers. Not today. Julian

falls to his knees again, sliding against the wall. He fingers

through his thinning hair and puts on his boots.

Three days pass, and it feels like home. Miracle has

gifted Julian this abandoned thirteen-floor apartment build-ing. It has all the luxuries and amenities except for electric-

ity.

Over the past two weeks, Julian walked westward

across the carnage of Europe. Town after town he traveled

over centuries of architecture burned to ash, a graveyard of

cobblestone. Fires crackling, cars on their sides, childrens

toys melted into sidewalks, charred remnants of trees, and

scavengers in hiding.

During Julians migration from France through the

sewers and underground tunnels, he learned of an alliance.

Graffiti in the subways spoke of it as last the last remaining

strength against the Corporation.


8/25

This hope has led him here, to this apartment com-

plex, which he inhabits with the dead. Refrigerators infested

with fat maggots crawl over decomposing contents. Bread

alive with living organic substances, a jungle of white and

green fuzz. Milk in bottles curdled thick and sour. Moldcoated the walls of appliances. Everything beyond edible,

except in the pantries. They contain canned food and dried

noodles.

The last three days, Julian has been eating like a

king, tearing open tin cans and devouring the contents with

his fingers. Even the plumbing works. The only missing ele-

ment of old life, is hot water.Beloved items and cherished objects left behind like

fragments of dream: smiling family portraits with parents

holding their children coated in dust, cobwebs and cock-

roaches climbing the walls, silver frames, expensive mirrors,

cherry-stained shelves, silk drapes, hand carved tables with

cute doilies, mahogany bassinets, dining rooms with fine

china and sparkling crystal forgotten, locked glass cabinets.Dresser tops covered in womens jewelry, glittering gems,

diamonds, gold and sparkling silver, new plush couches, now

soiled by rainwater and rodents, a black leather jacket hang-

ing motionless on a coat hanger. It appears everyone went

mysteriously on vacation, a permanent relocation, without

packing any belongings.

Julian moves throughout the building searching for

food and other needed items: toilet paper, dental floss, tooth-

pastes, shampoo, and bathroom amenities. Its been two

weeks since he brushed his teeth or bathed. All those sim-

ple common commodities, all those happy wonderful parts

of life that are overlooked; combing your hair, washing your

face, a dry towel, clean socks, a nice shirt, air conditioning.

The things that make people happy, they are so easily taken

for granted, until they are gone. Only then,


9/25

do we understand how much they are a part of ourselves.

Identity locked into daily rituals of habitual happiness.

Common living isnt so common once it is gone,

mouthwash, dental floss, antibacterial soap, clean under-

wear, deodorant.Julian found a razor and a green tube of shaving

cream. Today, he will trim his beard and see his face once

again. The blade is sharp, clean, and cuts diagonal with the

grain of his face. It is a little too sharp. Blood drips in the

sink, mixing with the floating hair and foam. He dips the ra-

zor in the cold water and shakes it. The blade slides across

his chin again.In a nearby closet he finds a polyester shirt. He but-

tons it up and puts on a blue and gold striped necktie. With

a plastic comb, he slicks back his hair. For five resonating

seconds he... almost feels good. This near feeling quickly

fades and Julian remains standing, staring back at his sad

reflection in the mirror. Pathetic broken eyes peer at him

from the illusionary window. They will not look away. Tearsswell and fall into the blood-foamed water.

Creeping through the hallway, Julian remembers a

vacation he and his family took. They stayed in a hotel near

the ocean. The sea breeze seeped in their bedrooms at

night and left salt on their lips. The hallway of this hotel is

similar to that one, flower-patterned carpet, gold trim boards,

and wallpaper with weaving petals.

He opens the door to room 212. White moths made

of dust flutter. Furniture crowds the living room in void of

conversation. Magazines lay on the floor. A rat scurries into

the hall. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling fan. A pair of loaf-

ers sits, wishing to be worn again. An oak chair rests at a

table. Dry chicken bones on a white plate.


10/25

Julian cautiously explores the apartment checking

each room. First the living room, then the kitchen and finally

the bedroom. Hesitantly, he opens each door.

A bloated man rots in his sleep. Flies circle above the gray

corpse. A swollen purple hand hangs over the bed coveredin dry blood. Chewed-off fingertips reveal little nubs of bone.

The dinner Julian ate last night finds its way onto the carpet.


11/25

This is how his days progress and the factory

outside pounds away. Being the buildings only resident he

freely relocates every couple days into a new tomb of an

apartment, and cleans up the death.

Yesterday, a couple lay clutched together in adecomposing embrace. Lovers gunned down during

intimacy: her blue breast under his decaying hand, a beetle

crawling over her face. Maggots have cleaned out her eye

sockets, leaving dark holes in an endless empty stare. Her

mouth, screaming from orgasm or fright, is dried like leather.

Dusting the furniture as if he were home, Julian

goes about cleaning apartments, wrapping the dead in bedsheets, and dragging them down the hallway. At end of

each floors north wing he piles them in a shared monastery.

In each apartment he moves into, there are clothes,

clean socks, fresh underwear, a toilet, and plenty of dry food.

He boils pots of water on the stove and fills a bath. His frail

body, thin and withering, sinks to the bottom.

The haunting lonely days pass. Every morning he wakesto the endless clinking of the factory, and every afternoon

he visits the East wing to watch them. Below, the men

work diligently, slaving in the black smoke, and building the

mechanical army.

Each night, Julian goes to the roof of the thirteen-floor

building. He peers westward watching the red sun go down

amongst the towers of smoke. Out there, the war continues,

the skies bleed misery and the days turn to darkness. He

thinks of his daughter, Helene, and of his wife Josephine.

He thinks of how life was. He tries remembering what the

world was like, a day at the park, a flock of ducks, and a

clown tying balloon animals, a yellow giraffe.


12/25

No one has suspected Julians presence. He has

been relatively safe living in the middle of an evacuated city

somewhere in Bulgaria.

This has become the problem. He cant keep

living here. Three months have passed. His food supplydwindles. He must move on.

If his 7th grade geography proves useful, he plans

to move southwest, into Turkey traveling south of the Black

Sea. If he reaches the Middle East hell be at the front lines

of the war. This is the only way to go from this location.

From the top of the building, Julian can see in all directions.

Most of the small dwellings below appear destroyed.Everything vacant, broken, burned, ash, except for the

factory. It never stops breathing smoke. Julian guesses

hell find the same things in the houses below as hes found

in this apartment: plenty of toiletries, dead families, and

discarded possessions, all the remnants scavengers havent

taken.

East of the village and winding south is a narrow river.Using this river for southward travel, it may lead to the Black

Sea. Hell pack enough supplies and food for a week. Too

much weight will make the journey unbearable. With any

luck hell find a boat. Hell move during the night and sleep

in the day. Hell creep through each town along the river and

follow the red skies of war. Hell walk directly towards the

glow of explosions. The same fire and smoke hes watched

every night from the rooftop. Hell travel into the center of

the battle from behind enemy lines.

His elbow heals. White window shades wave in the

morning wind. They are open, letting in the breeze. Plump

pigeons perch on the sill like fat, feathered gargoyles.

Mechanical laughter clatters below from the factory.


13/25


14/25


15/25

What are you going to do now?

I told you. I have a plan.

Oh yes, I forgot about that, your wonderful plan.

SilenceIts not going to work.

Yes it will.

Youre so sure?

Yes.

You really think youll be able to survive?

Maybe.

Maybe.No.

Youre brilliant.

If you have a better idea, Im open for suggestions.

How about we stay here and keep watching the factory.

Julian peers through his faint transparent reflection in the

window. We could do that. He says watching all the little

dots of men moving about.It is the safer option.

I suppose, but...

But what?

The food wont last.

We can raid the village.

Its dangerous to move about the city.

So?

So, this isnt any way to live. Im sick of scurrying like a

rodent.

Do we have a choice?

We could go down there and join them. We could work

in the factory and wear one of those fancy helmets. We

could walk to the tall dark smoke stacks, knock on the front

door and ask for an application. We could write a resume.

It would say, Local Lonesome Scavenger, looking for

occupation and purpose in life. Currently lost family and all

possessions. Hoping for new career opportunities.


16/25

Hard worker. Theyll give us the job and well be happy.

Well work diligently towards the better good of the

ultimate goal, one world domination. Well work for the

Conglomerate!

Julians fists clench. He strikes the wall.NEVER!

Plaster crumbles under his knuckles. One of the

factory workers glances strangely upward at the thirteen-

story building. Julian doesnt notice. Nor does he see the

man pointing up at him to one of the security personnel.

Julians thoughts are elsewhere.

I will never join the Conglomerate. They murdered myfamily! Julian falls to his knees. Tears collecting in his eye

sockets streak down his face. She was only four years old.

He buries his face in his palms and weeps. Never. Never,

never.

Defeated, hunched over and helpless.

This morning Julian found a book to pass the timewith. The Stranger, by Albert Camus. Luckily, it was in an

English translation. He begins reading it, sitting comfortably

on the toilet, digesting page after page. A sentence strikes

him, page 57, about half way through, To stay or to go, it

amounted to the same thing.

To stay here or to go, what difference does it make?

It is the same thing, death in here or death out there, what is

the difference?

Yes, what is the difference?

Quiet you!

Why dont you go get that fancy gun of yours and suck

on the long end of the barrel? Put some teeth marks in it.

Shove it deep into your yapping mouth and make this go

away. Make it better. Pull the trigger. Make it end. Put you

and me out of our misery.


17/25

The book fell in his naked lap. For a minute Julian

contemplated this option. It doesnt sound too bad of an

idea. What did surviving another day matter, even if he

could make it into the battlefields and help the Alliance, what

then? Without Josephine and Helene, he had nothing. TheConglomerate will win in the end. They will take over the

world. What use is fighting the inevitable?

Ok. He says silently, You win.

Its about time we come to reason, and agree on

something.

Julian wipes himself with the cotton soft Downy. He

lifts his pant. His thumb touches the brass flush handle and,he hears voices, footsteps, someone else in the building.

His gun is in the next room.

Three soldiers are on the same floor Julian is on.

Their boots stomp outside his front door. Julian has gotten

lazy. How could they have snuck up on him so fast?

Clear. The soldier in front says into a mouthpiece. The

other two follow and repeat.Room by room, they search the apartments. One man

enters, the other two follow, guns forward.

Their uniforms fit to their bodies, tied around the knees and

elbows, black leather gloves, gloss black helmets with a

silver letter C in the center of their foreheads, a blue-tinted

visor, their eyes like futuristic sunglasses. Wires connect

their helmets to their computerized backs. Tubes stick into

their mechanical flesh. Their motions are stern and smooth,

like a can opener hungry for tin. A race of machine men, the

astonishing product of the factorys endless hard work.

Julian shuts the lid of the toilet without flushing.

Clear!

Shooting all three solders isnt a possibility. Julian

has never fired a weapon in his life. What does he know

about killing?


18/25

A data input analyzer has zero background in arsenal

tactics. When his life was normal, back in Paris, when

Josephine was alive, and Helene could smile, there was no

concern for operating projectile devices.

His gun pulses in his mind, in the next room, propped upagainst the bed, unable to reach. It is there, sitting, glowing

in the daylight. The soldiers are in the hallway. They are at

his front door, again, just like before, only this time, he knows

why they are here.

The door bursts open.

Clear!

Guns raised with perfect aim scan the room, a whitesofa, a table of family photos, a set of car keys, a clean

dusted end table.

Clear!

The small dining room, an extension to the kitchen:

pots and pans on the counter, an empty bowl of rice Julian

ate last night in the sink, forever to be unwashed.

Black helmets glisten daylight leaking in from the windows.Clear!

The bedroom: blankets and clothes rummaged in a

mishap mess across the room, and an unmade bed where

Julian slept last night. His Assault Rifle in the corner. A

dresser covered in expensive jewelry, silver, and gems,

womens earrings and necklaces hanging from a nude

female sculpture. Julian thought Josephine would have

loved them.

Clear! shouts the mechanical voice.

There is a weapon here, the other soldier says. Someone

has been here.

Could be a scavenger.

Could be a scout for the Alliance. The robot man holds

Julians weapon and cocks the chamber letting the magazine

fall to the floor. This weapon is empty sir. There is no

ammunition.


19/25

No bullets! Julian thinks almost out loud. Ive been carrying

an empty gun for months without a single bullet!

No threat sir, probably a scavenger looking for a warm place

to stay.

Lets hunt him down.The soldier drops the rifle. It crashes to the hardwood floor.

They check the closet.

Clear.

They check the bathroom.

Clear.

They look through everything.

The perpetrator might be in another room. Lets move on.

Dangling like a spider from its web, Julian hangs from

the sill outside. The soldiers move on to the next apartment

without checking out the bathroom window. He struggles

to pull himself inside, falling to the checkered tile floor. His

heart throbbed, and the sound resonated inside his skull.

Pigeon droppings coated his hands white.The soldiers footsteps echo down the hallway

walking further and further away. Julian goes over to his rifle

and picks it up. He puts it to his head, and pulls the trigger.

Click, Click, Click,

Empty. He couldnt kill himself if he wanted to.

Tonight, at dusk, he decides to leave.


20/25

From the rooftop he watches the sun set for the last time.

A dark storm rolls in the West. Julian finds a fancy bow tie

in the closet. He puts it around his neck like a noose, and

carries his only friend, the unloaded rifle, like a child holdinga teddy bear. The barrel drags behind him down the hallway.

In the stairwell, he finds a Conglomerate soldiers helmet. It

must have been left behind during the death raids. It fit like

Cinderellas glass slipper. He smiles for the first time in six

months.

He opens the front door into the cold night. He steps fromthe building for the first time in months, with gun in hand. He

exits into the dark rain, waiting, wishing to die, a man with

nothing.


21/25

Roar Shock Test (Ok, Dr. Freud)

By Brandon Guttermuth

Illustrated by Joe Lipscomb

Part 1

post apocalyptic like a druid with a gimmick like

sigourney weaver on the cover of a misfits

album where salvia dreams of gorillas in the mist

caught in high beams like shuriken slit wrists

with bent lisps and crispix nom nom wheat thins geezkid i cant believe that you bought this

oh wait you didnt cause its free? im gonna inject a

canvas with HI FUCKING V


22/25

Part 2

like john connor im squeaky voiced from ganja and a lack of

pubes dude

ive booty bumped terminated lubed up quaaludes through

droughts and

monsoons of robot farts and stephen hawking squawk box

retard partsjust you when you thought evolution had lost

just when you thought we should give up our plight

arnold schwarzenegger opened his gubernatorial austrian

mouth

and proved that you were probably right


23/25

Part 3

fueled by aggression and the absolute certainity of its

determination that it is in fact the superior being, the predator

just knew that ewok was gonna get raped.


24/25

Credits

Cover Art by Blaine Garrett

The Conglomerate

Written by Charles Denton

Illustrated by Blaine Garrett

Roar Shock Test (Ok Dr. Freud)Written by Brandon Gutermuth

Illustrated by Joe Lipscomb

Layout by Joe Lipscomb

Dim Media is:

Charles Denton, Joe Lipscomb,

Blaine Garrett, & Ivy Sendrijas

Special thanks to Java Js for their continued support.

Gratitude towards Heckadecimal for screening ourwords. Many thanks to Karnak Gallery for displaying

our work.

Published by Dim MediaCopyright 2010. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form or by any means, graphic,electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,recording, taping, or by any information storageretrieval system, without the permission, inwriting, from the publisher or author.


25/25

Delicious Coffee. Classy Artwork. Dog Friendly.

Visit Java Js 700 North Washington Avenue

Minneapolis, MN

http://www.javajason.com

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